


Just Like A Pill (instead of making me better, you keep making me ill)

by JoulesIsIronic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Demons, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Institutions, Necessary Original Characters (as antagonists), Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Suicidal Thoughts, patient abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoulesIsIronic/pseuds/JoulesIsIronic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"At first, the pills just make it harder to concentrate.</em>
</p><p> <em>Then he starts losing time." </em></p><p>Pine View Center for Mental Health is a perfectly functional, perfectly legitimate facility for treating mental illnesses. It's Stiles that's broken. At least, that's what they tell people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like A Pill (instead of making me better, you keep making me ill)

**Author's Note:**

> Written long before the premiere of season three. This one’s been sitting in my writing folder since April, and therefore ignores the entire plot of the most recent season (excepting the spoiler released about Derek living in a loft, which is included in this fic).
> 
> Further, nothing in this story is medically accurate, to my knowledge. The facility depicted in this bares no intentional likeness to real life institutions, nor are the actions of the villainous staff members reflective of real-world facilities. This story depicts blatant patient abuse, as well as various other possibly triggering subjects. Please, only read if you are comfortable doing so. Other warnings include: rape/non-con of a minor, non-consensual drug use, non-consensual bondage, and some suicidal thoughts.

When Stiles wakes up, his wrists and ankles are restrained with firm leather straps to either side of his bed. He stares up at the bland white tiles, listening to the sounds outside his door and to the thudding of his heart against his chest as he slowly inhales and exhales. The paper-like medical-grade cloth of his shirt and pants (both a pale blue) scrape against his skin as he fidgets, testing his binds. Despair nags at him as he twists his wrists and he wonders why he even bothers. It didn’t work the last time, or any of the repeated times in the past that he’s tried. But he still holds out hope that whatever technician strapped him down last fucked up; that with one good tug he’ll snag a hand loose and be one step closer to sweet, glorious freedom.

His mind is still groggy from whatever brain-clogging drug they pumped into him. Whatever it is makes him sluggish, stops him from being able to concentrate. It’s the antithesis to his Adderall. His eyes slowly blink as he tries to regain some semblance of control.

He counts the ceiling tiles just to prove that he can.

He can’t.

***

He never should have trusted Ms. Morrell.

Not that he ever did, in fact, trust her. But, to appease his father after what happened with psycho-Matt in the police station, he continued seeing her to “work out his issues.”

In his list of Stupid Life Choices, this ranks as a close second to “wander through the woods in search of the other half of a dead body.”

In a town like Beacon Hills, he should have guessed she had some connection to the supernatural; that she secretly had it out for him. His problems were too big for her, she told his dad. But she knew just the person who could help! How generous.

This friend of hers… not so much of a friend to Stiles. Leered over him, let his fingers linger and roam. When Stiles – _literally_ backed into a corner – lashed out, punching the man hard enough to break his nose, a team of nurses rushed in, holding him down, sedating him.

He’d had a psychotic break, Dr. Levy said. It was lucky he’d been brought in, that they’d caught it before he’d done any real damage to other people or to himself. Ms. Morrell stepped in, explaining why she’d recommended Dr. Levy: she cited notes from her earlier meetings about possible suicidal thoughts. She falsified confessions of believing in supernatural creatures; pulled out fake notes in which he insisted his best friend was a werewolf.

A quick search of his room didn’t help. Those books were for his online gaming, he had told them. And the bag of mysterious powder? Mountain Ash, for authenticity when roleplaying. Weapons? No, those knives were purely decorative. His browser history? All research for class projects.

Dr. Levy pressed charges. It was for Stiles’ own good, he insisted. The small Family Court trial ruled mental illness. Four months in a facility would help him, would _fix_ him.

Dr. Levy suggested his own practice. It was small, but well run, he said. Dedicated staff. Only took on a handful of patients. They’d be more than _happy_ to have Stiles.

As he was led away, Stiles looked back at his father, hoping the man could see the pleading in his eyes and would do something to help him. But the Sheriff met his eyes with a look of helplessness.

“It’ll be okay,” his father mouthed silently.

But it wouldn’t be.

***

Sessions with Dr. Levy are the worst. The man’s a grade-A creep. He’s probably somewhere in his thirties, with brown hair and matching eyes. Stiles once made a joke about his eyes being brown because he’s full of shit.

Dr. Levy had smiled.

Instead of sitting behind his desk, like Stiles assumes most doctors do, he’ll pull a chair right up in front of him so that they’re barely a foot apart.

“And how are you feeling today, Stiles?” He’ll ask, leaning forward.

Stiles can feel his heart racing every time because he knows what follows. And he’s learned what happens when he fights back, when he curls his fingers into fists and slams them into the doctor’s face; when he kicks and shoves and leaves bruises and blood all over the older man.

An extended stay, they say. Add on another month. It’s not normal protocol, they admit, but the boy is clearly unstable. Needs more help. Perhaps more one-on-one treatment. Dr. Levy is so kind to keep taking him on; so generous to offer his help.

So they leave him alone with Dr. Levy and his wandering hands.

***

The nurses are in on it.

He tries to tell anyone who will listen, but he’s already been stigmatized. He’ll do anything to get out, they say, tutting. He’s a compulsive liar. Delusional. Dr. Levy’s a _saint_. But there’s a knowing look in their eyes, a secret viciousness; like they know what’s happening and that they’re _enjoying_ it.

He thinks he sees a flash of black in one nurse’s eyes. But it’s probably just the drugs they’ve got him doped up on.

***

They hand him a small plastic tin with several little pills and some water.

He sneers at them, scoffing, putting up a show of struggle before dumps the contents into his mouth.

They smile.

The pills slip under his tongue and he swallows the water in an audible gulp.

“That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” Nurse Atkins asks, lips pulled upward, reminding Stiles of the Cheshire Cat.

“So awesome,” he replies wryly, taking care to keep the pills in place. “I love being hopped up on mind-numbing meds. It’s the best.”

Later, when he’s in the bathroom and has a semblance of privacy, he spits them out and watches the disgusting, half dissolved tables get sucked down the drain.

***

A week in, he wonders why no one’s tried to visit yet.

He knows they’re all busy. Scott’s got his werewolf stuff and Lydia’s always doing some kind of project and Allison’s been doing a lot of combat training and his dad works a lot…

But, still, you’d think at least one of ‘em would have stopped by.

He asks one of the nurses and she tells him he’s had no visitors. _She’s lying_ , he thinks, as she pats his arm sympathetically; she’s trying too hard to act nice.

They won’t let him call anyone except his dad, so he writes some letters.

The next day, when the custodian is dumping the recyclables, he catches a glimpse of Scott’s address as the papers flutter into the bin.

***

They know he’s not taking his pills.

He denies it, of course, and tells them they’re crazy.

One of the nurses grabs him and she’s impossibly strong. The other dumps a cocktail of meds in his mouth, pressing her hand over it and pinching his nose closed.

He can’t breathe. Bucking, he tries to shake them off, sinking to the floor as he struggles. There’s a darkness at the edge of his vision and he feels himself swallowing.

The hand is removed and they leave him be.

It becomes a daily ritual.

***

At first, the pills just make it harder to concentrate.

Then he starts losing time.

***

His father wants to visit him. At least, that’s what he says on the phone when they talk. One call a day. He’s more restricted than a prison inmate.

There’s always someone with him when they talk. It’s usually Dr. Levy or one of the crueler nurses. Nurse Atkins has it out for him in particular, and so does Nurse Doler. They listen in on his call, close enough to gag him if necessary, a syringe full of the extra-bad stuff at the ready just in case.

“I’m fine,” he tells his father, hoping day after day that the man will see through the lie. But he must have gotten too good at them, because his dad still hasn’t busted down the door to save him, even though he’s been in this hellhole for two and a half weeks; even though they’ve been upping his meds of late, and he’s finding it increasingly hard to know which way is right-side up.

“I’ll try to visit soon,” his father promises, something _off_ in his voice.

Stiles tries to remain hopeful, but every day that passes brings about increasing bitterness.

***

They don’t always tie him down for bed. At least, they didn’t at first. His door is locked, of course, and the small, child-sized window is crisscrossed with bars, so it isn’t like he’s going anywhere.

He realizes the pattern pretty quickly, though.

Almost always when they bind his wrists (for his own protection, they say), Dr. Levy comes to visit. Sometimes… sometimes he just talks. He’ll sit on the edge of the bed, his lips will curve upward in a vicious mockery of a smile, and he’ll prattle on about how Stiles is never getting out; that his father doesn’t visit because he’s realized what a waste of space his son is; that Stiles is ruining his father’s life, and the lives of those around him. That he’s toxic. He’ll tell Stiles how useless he is, how obnoxious, how idiotic.

But other times, he’ll tell him how pretty he is.

Those times are the worst.

Because if Stiles thought his wandering hands were bad before….

Dr. Levy climbs on top of him, breathing him in, pushing against the cloth of his sorry excuse for a shirt and playing with the elastic band of his paper-thin pants. He grinds unabashedly, no matter how much Stiles squirms and struggles, laughing as the teen pulls against the leather restraints.

“I’ll scream,” Stiles whispers, because his chest is so constricted – his voice is so choked up with sobs – that he can’t actually speak any louder.

“As if that would help,” the doctor taunts, chuckling lightly. He adjusts the straps on Stiles’ ankles to a more convenient position. Stiles’ frantic kicking doesn’t even faze him. Stretching out over Stiles’ body, he pulls lazily at his waistband while nipping at the sensitive skin at the crook of the teenager’s neck.

Stiles does scream, yelling as he thrashes, calling for somebody, _anybody_ , to help him.

No one comes.

Dr. Levy grins down at him, all teeth. This time, Stiles is positive that he sees a flash of black in the man’s eyes. Unfortunately, this realization doesn’t do him any good.

It just means the monsters he’s trapped with are more literal than he’d thought.

***

They’ve upped his doses again. A month has passed since his induction into Hotel Hell-salvania. There’s something clouding over in his head and he finds himself shaking all the time. Maybe it’s the hyper vigilance Ms. Morrell (that bitch) once mentioned, or some variation of it. It’s different than a panic attack. Worse. The panic’s trapped in his gut with no way to escape, so it’s beating against his insides, tearing, clawing, trying to get out.

When Stiles catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror, he almost doesn’t recognize himself. There’s a flat, dead look to his amber eyes.

He can’t bring himself to care.

***

One of the only activities they let him do is color, but most of the time he just lets his hands rake over the page absentmindedly, random crayon dragging across the surface.

A month and a week into his stay, he glances down at the page on a whim.

 _Help me_ , in messy red scrawl, yells back.

*** 

There must be something in his voice, because his father sounds worried on the phone. Or, at least, he thinks he does. Stiles is having trouble differentiating tones. His fingers are trembling and twitching involuntarily against the phone.

“Stiles, son, are you… are you alright?” his father asks.

“No, they’re hurting me,” he hears himself respond in a rush, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice or the newfound desperation in it. “Help me.”

There’s a hand covering his mouth and a needle in his neck. He’s down in seconds.

***

He wakes up in restraints.

***

There are only one or two other patients at the hospital. It’s a private facility, run by Dr. Levy and his staff, and Stiles doesn’t get much communication with the others. A part of him wants to know if they’re receiving the same treatment as he is, or if they’re the _real_ patients, the ones for show; the ones that prove that the hospital isn’t the thing that’s broken, _Stiles_ is.

But a couple of days after that, one of them sits next to him during their recreational time. Stiles is guided to his normal table by one of the nurses. He doesn’t notice which one; he doesn’t really care.

A mousy girl with dark skin and wild hair sits next to him. She’s only been here for a couple of weeks and they’ve never spoken before.

“Your dad was here the other day,” she says, “but they wouldn’t let him see you. There was a big ruckus about it.”

Stiles doesn’t look up from his drawing. She’s probably just a figment of his imagination. She’ll go away soon enough.

As if on cue, one of the nurses comes over and leads her to another table. He can hear the nurse tell the girl about Stiles, about how proximity to him will be detrimental to her success. He’s a lost cause.

He finishes the H he’s coloring and moves on to the E. He thinks maybe an L would work well, next.

***

They haven’t let him use the phone since the incident with his dad and he knows they aren’t planning to. He’s lost track of time, but he thinks he might be approaching the two month mark.

He looks down at his wrists, which are red and chaffed. Or, at least, he thinks they are. His vision’s been a bit blurry lately, colors whirling together. He’d say it’s disorienting, but he’s been disoriented for weeks now, so really it’s just adding insult to injury.

There’s a newer nurse, one who isn’t up on his protocol. He’s brought his cellphone in, but none of his coworkers have noticed yet.

Stiles manages to pilfer a pen from his session with Dr. Levy when the man is distracted. But if he’s going to act, he’ll need to do so quickly, before the doctor realizes it’s gone and puts two and two together.

The nurse is seated by one of the doors in the recreation room and Stiles sits next to him, twiddling his fingers. He’s shaking, but that’s more from the meds than the nerves, because Stiles is so burnt out that he can barely feel a thing. There’s a dulled sense of fear and the ever-present stabbing pain, but besides that… nothing.

He uses that to his advantage.

When the nurse whips out his phone, somehow the stars have aligned. There’s only one other hospital staff member in the room, and she’s dealing with the girl from his hallucination, who’s having a bit of an episode. Stiles lets the pen slip into his fingers from his waistband. The man is so distracted by his text, he doesn’t realize anything’s wrong until the pen stabs into his leg; Stiles follows it up with a strike to the throat. The nurse collapses to his knees and Stiles pries the device away from him, booking it down a hall, hearing shouts from the other nurse in his wake.

Somehow, in the months since his captivity, he’s still managed to maintain the ability to dial and run. Scott’s number is punched in and ringing. There’s a pounding of footsteps behind him, along with shouts, he thinks. He’s forced to turn down a side hall when security guards come at him from the front.

Dr. Levy’s office door is open, but the man is across the way, chatting with a nurse. His eyes widen when he sees Stiles, but he doesn’t reach the door until Stiles is through the threshold and the door is locked.

Scott’s voicemail chatters in his ear.

There’s something – a bitter sense of disappointment and horror – that pangs in his chest. Even the overabundance of drugs can’t quite fight it off.

He hangs up without leaving a message and dials Derek instead.

Outside the door is shouting and slamming. With his free hand, Stiles pushes the bookshelf to partially block the entrance, trying to buy time for when they inevitably break it down. He’s crawling under the desk when he hears a familiar voice pick up.

“Who is this?” is all he gets by way of greeting. He’s never been more relieved to hear Derek’s voice, which is really saying something considering his various forays with life threatening experiences.

“It’s Stiles,” he whispers urgently, the thuds against the door increasingly loud. The cracking of wood rings in his ears. “Please, please help me. Please. They’re hurting me. I can’t stay here. Please…”

The door is slammed open, wood splintering, and Stiles can hear the bookshelf topple over.

“Stiles?” he can hear the confusion in Derek’s voice. “Stiles, where are you? What’s…?”

“Pine View Center for Mental Health,” Stiles tells him, distantly aware of the desperation in his voice. “Please…”

But that’s all he can get out before he’s dragged out by his ankles. The phone is lost in the scuffle, but he never hung up, and he thinks he can still hear Derek calling for him. The security guards wrestle him to the ground with ease. His lips are moving, he realizes, and he’s begging them to stop when he feels a needle at his neck, hovering just above the skin but not yet plunged in.

Derek’s voice is lost with a click and Dr. Levy has the phone in his hand, his expression triumphant. He crushes the device in his fingers like its tissue paper.

“Oh, Stiles, you should have just told us you were calling the big, bad Alpha,” Dr. Levy mocks, leaning down to leer over him. “What do you think we’ve been waiting for all this time? Did you really think this was about you? Not that you’re not fun in your own right…”

His eyes flash black again and Stiles has the briefest moment of wondering if any of this is real; if he’ll wake up strapped down to his bed, or maybe even in the solitude of his own home. He really hopes this is just a nightmare. Because otherwise… otherwise he just summoned Derek to a death trap. And if something happens to him… if he gets hurt… that’s on Stiles.

The panic and the meds are at war in his head; part of him is squirming and struggling, wrestling to get free, to do something, _anything_ , but the other part is ready to lie down and stop, to give up, to die….

Dr. Levy grabs his shoulders with clawed fingers, digging in so that warm blood drips down his arms, staining the sleeves of his shirt. The monster is breathing him in, clenching his claws so that Stiles has to bite back cries when the wounds are widened and deepened. The doctor pulls out, licking at the tips of his fingers, letting the blood drip down his lips.

There’s an excitement in Dr. Levy’s eyes as he presses himself against Stiles’ body, which the guards are still holding in place so that Stiles is propped up on his knees, wrists behind his back. The doctor rakes down his chest lightly with the claws, enough to draw blood but not enough to cut deep. Then he runs his tongue – still covered in Stiles’ blood – over Stiles lips, trying to press inside so that Stiles tastes the metallic, iron-like substance.

“Mm,” the doctor moans, and his hands are wandering again. Stiles can tangibly feel the how the meds are affecting him; how the tension in his body dissipates instead of intensifying. He’s still shaking though. He’s _always_ shaking, now. Dr. Levy reels back slightly to look at him, and the serial killer smile he favors adorns his face. “I can’t wait to see the look on that pup’s face when he smells you all over me,” he preens. “Let’s see how riled up we can get him, shall we?”

There’s a pinch in the back of his neck. Then everything is black.

***

He wakes up in restraints.

It takes him a moment to realize that sirens are blaring in the halls outside his room. When he tries to move, he can feel the material of his clothes – still warm and wet and soaked through with various bodily fluids – drag across his skin. Somewhere in his mind, he knows that too much time couldn’t have passed since he went under.

He stares at the ceiling.

There’s something he needs to remember, something important… something….

Derek.

There’s an icy weight settles in his gut. The sirens… Derek came. Derek’s here. Because of Stiles. And if he gets hurt or dies… that’s on him for being too weak to suck it up…. For crying for help… for being a pathetic waste of space…

The monsters here… there’s so many… and they’re so strong. There’s no way Derek can…

They’ll _kill_ him.

The door cracks open and Stiles closes his eyes, his whole body tensing.

It was only a matter of time before Dr. Levy came back. The same familiar fear washes over him as it does every time he finds his wrists and ankles bound. He can feel the body near him through his closed eyelids, as something dark passes in front of him.

“Don’t,” he hears himself whisper. It’s basically reflex now, regardless of how futile it is. His body is trembling – from the drugs, he tells himself, from the drugs – and he squeezes his eyes shut further. He doesn’t want to see Dr. Levy’s smirk or the demented glint in his eyes; he doesn’t want verification that the monster came out on top, that Derek is dead…  

Besides, it’s always worse after he misbehaves.

There’s a sharp inhalation of breath – a gasp of horror, maybe – and Stiles can hear the sound of slashing near his wrists and ankles. His eyelids slowly crack open, giving him only the briefest glimpse of his visitor – Derek, wolfed out, drenched in blood, and furious – before he’s being wrenched to his feet in a whoosh of motion that leaves him dizzy.

Stiles looks down at his blurry wrists and the remains of the leather strips drop to the ground. Then he looks up at Derek, who seems to struggle for a moment before shifting back to normal.

“Are you real?” Stiles can’t help asking, reaching out his shaking fingers and wrapping them in Derek’s jacket.

The werewolf has a strange look on his face, but Stiles can’t place it; though that might be the drugs, which are making everything fuzzy as it is. He sways on his feet, leaning into the wall of muscle. Derek opens his mouth, but a siren blares seem louder now, and suddenly Stiles is being half dragged, half carried away.

*** 

Stiles wakes up in an abandoned train car. Well, abandoned aside from him and Derek.

There’s a bucket next to him and several bottles of water. He’s wrapped in layer upon layer of blankets, which he finds bundled and clenched in his fingers. His blankets are drenched and his face is wet, though he’s not sure whether that’s due to sweat or tears.

Derek is staring at him with a look of… pity, he thinks. Stiles tries not to hate him for it.

His whole body is wracked and he feels like he’s being unwound.

After throwing up, he closes his eyes, trying to force himself unconscious.

***

The next time he wakes up, Derek is gone but there’s a bowl of reasonably warm soup and a note that says, “Eat something.”

Stiles does, but it doesn’t stay down.

***

He’s not sure how many days have passed since his rescue, but he thinks it has to have at least been a few. Derek’s back and this time he’s brought books, various food products, and, miracles upon miracles, a bag of toiletries.

Stiles shouldn’t feel as proud as he does when he manages to eat without spilling the contents of his stomach.

***

“Do you want to… talk?” Derek asks after another day or so passes. It’s hard to tell in the abandoned train station, and Stiles’ internal clock is way out of whack as it is.

“About what?” Stiles replies, keeping his eyes closed. The station is freezing, but somehow he ended up cuddled against Derek’s chest. He never thought he would think the words “cuddle” and “Derek” in the same sentence, but their snuggle-party is providing Stiles with his own personal space heater, so he’ll take it.

Derek practically growls in response. “About… you know.”

Stiles _does_ know. “As fun as _that_ sounds… pass.”

“Stiles,” Derek starts.

“Oh, would you look at that, I’m falling asleep,” Stiles mumbles into the werewolf’s chest. “Sleep’s pretty important after, you know, being kidnapped and tortured by psychopaths. So I’m going to get on that.”

He can hear Derek huff, but he doesn’t argue further.

***

When his head finally clears – when it stops feeling like someone took a sledgehammer to it – he realizes why they’re hiding out in abandoned train carts instead of Derek’s loft.

“They know you helped me escape?” Stiles asks over his soup. Derek had, apparently, managed to rig up a system to heat up their food. All Stiles can think is, Thank _God_.

“Not sure,” Derek replies. He’s got a sandwich of sorts; gas station food, from the look of it. “Not taking any chances.”

“I’m not going back to that hellhole,” Stiles hears himself saying.

Derek just _looks_ at him. “I know.”

They finish eating in silence.

***

After almost a week of tuning into local news via radio and hearing nothing of a fugitive status for one Derek Hale, they decide to give Derek’s loft a shot. The werewolf had been testing it now and again through the week, keeping his eyes out for cops just in case it was a trap. But by day seven, they’re reasonably sure no one suspects Derek’s involvement in the Great Escape, and by then Stiles is desperate enough to risk it anyway.

He reeks, totally and completely. There’s only so much toiletries can do without running water. And if he smells bad to _himself_ , imagine how bad he must stink to Derek, whose werewolf senses are even _more_ super-sense-y than your average supernatural creature.

The warm water feels so good against his skin, and Stiles revels in it. It’s been months since he’s had a _real_ shower; he refuses to count those sorry excuses for facilities in Pine View as legitimate places to clean up. His whole body feels disgusting, so he turns the heat up as high as it will go, so that it stings and burns at his skin, leaving it pink and irritated. He scrubs and soaps and soaps and scrubs, but he doesn’t feel any cleaner.

He’s used up all the soap, he realizes, feeling guilty that he didn’t leave any for Derek. But it’s still not enough, so he stands under the spray of water for a long time after it loses all traces of warmth, wiping at his skin, at the healed over scars from Dr. Levy’s claws, at his now-long hair.

There’s a pounding at the door and Stiles jumps.

“It’s just me, Stiles,” he hears Derek say. “You okay in there?”

Stiles nods even though Derek can’t see him. There’s a constriction in his throat preventing him from speaking, so he grudgingly turns off the water and steps out, wrapping a large, surprisingly fluffy towel around his waist.

He spends longer than necessary drying his body and putting on the sweatpants and t-shirt Derek left for him. By the time he’s done, the fog has cleared from the mirror. Bloodshot red eyes stare back at him, puffy and bloated. He was crying, he realizes, wiping snot from his nose.

Derek doesn’t comment when he finally emerges, but Stiles doesn’t miss the sad look in his eyes.

***

After that, Stiles showers several times a day, for long, lengthy durations.

Stiles half expects Derek to say something about the copious amounts of water he’s wasting; about how his utilities bill is going to skyrocket. But the werewolf doesn’t say a word. Just prepares some soup, or, more recently sandwiches, and they eat in relative silence.

***

Stiles is on the threadbare couch, cocooned in blankets, recovering from his most recent panic attack. They’ve started up again, much to Stiles’ chagrin. Derek takes it all in stride, though; doesn’t make fun of him for it or shoot him annoyed looks.

“I used to get them after the fire,” the werewolf admitted after the first one, and Stiles felt calmer, less anxious.

The TV’s on, but they’ve stopped watching the news together. The images of the hospital and of Dr. Levy were not helping on the panic attack front, even if the reports were discussing the grisly murders of the hospital staff, or that the police believe the hospital was a front for illegal activities, that the files they found indicate patient abuse. There were interviews with the other two patients who were miraculously found alive after the bloodbath, which corroborated the story. Stiles thinks Derek listens to broadcasts on a radio in his room at night, just to reassure himself that no one’s on their trail.

One of the patients claimed to hear what they thought were the howls of a wolves and the heavy pounding of some kind of creature running through the halls the night of the attack; their claims may not have been as substantiated if the wounds on the dead didn’t appear to have been from an “animal attack.” But how a pack of wolves could have gotten into the hospital, nobody knew.

Regardless, Pine View was closed for business. The former patients were being treated in their homes, at least for the foreseeable future. And there were searches out for the other patient who went missing, a sixteen-year-old Stiles Stilinski, with a phone number listed for any information on the lost boy.

Stiles is watching _Gravity Falls_ and Derek didn’t even protest, which makes Stiles realize he must look even worse than he thinks.

Then there’s a pounding at the door.

Stiles shoots Derek what can only be described as a look of pure, unadulterated terror, but Derek just holds up his hands calmly.

“I’ll take care of whoever’s at the door,” he assures him. “Watch your cartoons.”

As if Stiles can focus on TV when, for all he knows, whoever’s come is here to take him away.

The door is out of his line of sight from the couch, so Stiles listens as it creeks open.

“Sheriff,” Derek says, surprise in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for my son,” his dad tells him, and Stiles feels his heart seize at the sound of his father’s voice. The last time they spoke, Stiles was begging him to take him out of that facility. And he hadn’t. Stiles can’t help but feel a sting of betrayal in his chest at the thought, regardless of how relieving it is to hear his father.

“And what makes you think he’s here?” Derek demands, and Stiles can picture him growling, all teeth and glares.

“One of the patients admitted to seeing you. That you were there the day Stiles escaped. And he’s not with Scott or Allison or Lydia, so I just…” His father sounds very lost and sad, and Stiles feels his fists clench in the blankets.

“Planning on letting him get locked up again when you find him?” There’s a gruffness to Derek’s voice, an anger. A harshness. A challenge.

“No,God _no_ ,” Stiles hears his dad say, aghast. “I’d been trying to get him out of there for nearly a month. On the phone, he…” His dad breaks off, distressed. “When I went there to get him out, they wouldn’t release him to me. Said he was there on behalf of the state, so even as his father I couldn’t sign him out. The lawyers I hired… they said there was nothing I could do without _proof_ that they were hurting my son. Kept going on and on about how patients often lie to try to get out of things… But they didn’t hear him that day on the phone, they didn’t….”

There’s a choked sound and a shuffle of movement and then his father’s in the doorway, staring at him though poufy, bloodshot eyes.

“Stiles,” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice, and he’s rushing over before Stiles can say anything.

There’s a lot of sobbing that follows, and tears. His father is holding him, and they’re pressed together in some weird, pretzel-like formation, gripping at each other like they’re clinging to lifeboats. And maybe they are, because Stiles knows he’s all his dad has, and his dad’s the only family he has left, too. Derek has excused himself from the room, but Stiles can still hear him puttering about in the kitchen, and when Derek comes back in the room he sits in the chair on the far side of the couch, keeping his eyes on the adventures of Dipper and Mabel and their cartoon excursions.

His dad stays for a long while, but he leaves Stiles at the loft, claiming that he needs to get everything in order before Stiles is “found” by the general public.

***

Despite his aversion to the news, Derek turns it on the next morning as they munch on their cereal. Stiles glances over at him quizzically, but Derek just points to the screen.

The banner reads: “Evidence of Patient Abuse Found for Pine View Residents.”

The anchor reports that new evidence shows that at least one of the patients was framed by his doctor for his supposed mental illness; that many of the documents were forged; that they were drugging their teenage patient to make him appear unstable.

The missing teenager, the anchor goes on, will be returned to the care of his guardian when he’s found; that the false allegations about him will be expunged from his record.

Stiles feels his body sag with relief, and Derek, who ended up right next to him somehow, gives his shoulder a squeeze.

*** 

Stiles can’t sleep in his bed.

It’s been months since he’s been in it, and now he can’t get comfortable.

It doesn’t help that he can’t sleep in general. And when he does fall asleep, his dreams are nightmares, and Dr. Levy’s on top of him with syringe, and the nurses are laughing, and Derek’s head is hanging from the wall….

Stiles doesn’t want his father to worry, so he tries not to sleep at all, that way he can’t wake up screaming or crying or trembling in his dad’s grip.

He hears his window open and jerks his head to see a pair of red eyes staring back at him. The werewolf is unusually gentle and climbs in, wrapping his fingers around Stiles’, stroking his skin in comforting circles.

When Stiles wakes up, he’s gone. But Stiles isn’t crying, or screaming, or trembling, and though he’s still exhausted, it’s the best sleep he’s had in months.

***

Things aren’t back to normal, but they’re as close as they can get, given the circumstances.

Stiles goes back to school and tries his best to ignore the stares and whispers that follow him. Things are tense with Scott at first, because when he looks at his best friend he remembers, with a pang of bitterness, that he didn’t pick up when Stiles called; but Stiles knows it’s petty – that Scott didn’t even know it was him calling from an unknown number – and does his best to push it down, to not let it tear them apart.

Scott, to his credit, looks guilty. And he did, apparently, try to visit various times, and try to call a few times a week. They just wouldn’t let him through, he says, and Stiles believes him; he’s not the only one he’s heard that from; Allison and Lydia expressed similar sentiments.

Derek has managed to become a fixture in his life, lurking in the shadows, sneaking in the window at night. He thinks his dad knows, but at this point, he’s not willing to take away from his kid one of the few things that makes him happy.

And so, life goes on.

**Author's Note:**

> Another humongous Thank You to Stormysaslytherin for acting as my ever-lovely beta.


End file.
